This Was The End
by Lennelle
Summary: The dead rule the world. Just another day for the Winchesters, until it isn't. Apocalypse AU.


A random Apocalypse fic happened. I hope you like zombies and plenty of tears.

* * *

Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

The biggest part of the Winchesters' lives had been one of the best kept secrets. Most of the world didn't have any idea of the things they dealt with every day. Burning bones on a Monday, a silver bullet through a werewolf's heart on a Wednesday. Every day things. The greatest secret ever kept.

But then the sickness had come, and people were dying, and then the dead weren't staying that way and climbed out of graves and wandered out of morgues to get a bite out of the living. And the secret was out. And the whole world was trying to save people. Trying to hunt things. And Sam and Dean weren't liars or criminals anymore.

Living in the dead's world wasn't much different to how it was before, for Sam and Dean. They didn't have a home they were forced to escape from, and they didn't have any family left to lose. They just had each other, just like it had been before. And the job description; the family business. It was more important now than ever.

Saving people.

Hunting things.

In this moment, those words meant more than they ever had, as Dean swung his blade. They were surrounded. A small hoard, they could take them, but it was a bitch either way. They'd come looking for water, their camp had run out, and Sam and Dean were the best men for the job. And they'd found a Gas 'n Sip not far from their home base. It had seemed clear, and it was, until they'd left the building with what they'd come for only to be met by a bunch of hungry biters who'd wandered in from the surrounding wood.

Dean had made a quick headcount; seven of them. Sam had popped the trunk open and tossed Dean a machete (gunfire would attract more of them) like it was a normal Thursday spent taking down a vamp nest.

Speaking of which, there had been no sign of monsters. Or demons. With the dead walking it seemed the rest of the supernatural world had decided to finally fuck off. Not that Dean was complaining, but the whole thing made him a little wary.

He slammed his knife down into one of the zombie's skulls. Sam never called them that, said it sounded too Hollywood. He preferred to call them biters, because that's all they seemed to want to do. Dean gave them a bunch of names, found a little entertainment in it; rotters, walkers, nashers, nuisances, fuckers.

To his right, Sam was hacking away at another one of them. She would have been young, he thinks, judging by the dirty crop-top and high-waisted shorts, but now half her face is missing, showing off those yellowing teeth that were snapping at Sam. Sam yanked his knife out of her head (always go for the head) and turned to Dean with a blood-spattered grin.

The grin quickly dropped and Sam yelled, "Dean!"

He was already running at him, but Dean barely had time to turn before something was grabbing him, gripping him tightly on the shoulders. He was being pulled towards snapping jaws, he could smell the putrid stench of death and it would have made him gag being this close if he hadn't been so caught off guard.

He'd come to the realisation that this was it. He was going to get bitten and that would be the end of it, there wasn't anything anyone could do. There was no time to do anything.

But then he was falling, practically thrown to the side. His head smacked against the asphalt and the world tilted dangerously for a second, fading in and out. He blinked, could see Sam about a metre away, straddling the biter that had grabbed Dean, bringing his machete down, over and over, screaming like the corpse had personally wronged him.

Sam stopped, chest heaving, he dropped his knife and climbed slowly off the body. Dean's vision was clearing and he could see the pulp Sam had made of the thing's head.

"Dude," Dean breathed, a little in awe. "That was… messed up."

Sam didn't move from where he'd slumped down next the corpse, not seeming bothered by how close its mince-meat of head was to him. He didn't look at Dean.

"It was going to bite you," he said, his voice was raspy from all the yelling. Finally, he looked over. "Are you okay?"

Dean sat up and gave himself a quick once over. "I'm good. Not a scratch. Maybe a little road burn."

Sam nodded. "Good," he said, and shakily pushed himself to his feet. "We should head back."

"Let's roll," Dean let Sam pull him up and they gathered the supplied they'd left by the car and dumped it all in the back seat.

"Not a bad haul," Dean commented. They'd been driving a little while, not a word between them. Sam was being too quiet. He must have really been shaken by Dean's almost-demise. The roads were empty, but you always had to keep an eye out for any wandering corpses, but Dean dared to glance over at Sam.

His heart dropped like a stone.

Sam was glancing down at his arm, it was bloody and he was prodding gently at a gaping bite mark halfway between his elbow and his wrist.

Dean swerved to the side of the road, slamming on the breaks so hard that Sam would have gone flying if Dean held him back with a firm hand. Sam quickly pulled his sleeve back down and refused to look at his brother.

"Sammy…" Dean whispered, his hand found Sam's shoulder and he squeezed it tightly. "Sam, when?"

"The one that was going to get you," Sam said, his voice was oddly flat. "I pushed it off you but it got a chunk out of my arm. Sorry. I should have said."

"Were you going to tell me?" Dean demanded. He didn't mean to sound so harsh, he meant it in a were-you-going-to-tell-me-you're-hurt kind of way, not a were-you-going-to-let-other-people-get-hurt kind of way. Sam must have taken it for the latter because he flinched away a little, sitting as close to the window as possible.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracked and Dean could see his eyes begin to fill. "I don't think I really noticed until now… I, it was a shock. I'm sorry."

"Sammy…" Dean trailed of and rested his forehead on his hand, fingers clenching painfully at his hair. He looked up, Sam was waiting for him to say something, to shout at him. Dean just yanked Sam into his arms and held on tight. A hand gripped the back of his head, fingers in his unwashed, over-long hair. "I'm so sorry, Sam. I was supposed to look out for you."

"Not your fault," Sam murmured into his shoulder. "I should have been more careful."

They parted and Dean kept his hand on the back of Sam's head. "We'll fix this, Sam."

"I know," Sam agreed. "And there's only one way to fix it."

"Sam, no."

Sam rolled his eyes and looked away, one hand clutched over his still-bleeding wound. "Dean," he sighed. "Don't be stupid. You know what we have to do. It's okay."

"No! It's not. There has to be another way."

Sam looked him dead in the eyes. "You know there's not," he said, almost gently. He held out a hand. "Give me your gun. I'll do it myself. You don't need to see."

"I'm not leaving you here to blow your brains out."

"There's no other choice – "

"I _will_ find another – "

"There isn't one!" Sam cried, he slammed his unbitten hand down on the dash. "Dammit, Dean! Just give me your fucking gun and let it be over with!"

Dean grit his teeth. "No."

He turned the key in the ignition and started down the road again. In the rear-view mirror, he could see biters wandering onto the road, their argument must have been loud enough to attract them. To his right, Sam was leaning against the window, starting to look pale. He was crying quietly.

* * *

The gates opened and closed behind them. The camp was busy as usual, people kept watch on the walls, others worked in the garden picking ripe fruit and vegetables, children ran about, tossing a deflated football between one another. It was four years in the making and it was safe, for now.

"I can't be here," Sam whispered to Dean, he was leaning over the hood as Dean removed the supplies from the back seat. "I need to go," Sam hissed when Dean didn't answer.

"You're not going anywhere," Dean told him. "Come with me."

Sam did as he was told and followed Dean to their stores to drop off the crates of water. He pulled Sam to the med centre, what used to be a vets before Dean had led their group there. There had been some medicine and supplies that they could use, as well as a young pre-med student who had taken over the place. They'd picked the girl up off the side of the road three years ago as she's been trying to outrun a hoard.

"Hey, Dean," She greeted, then peered over his shoulder, "And Sam."

Sam was lingering in the doorway with his head down. "This is stupid," he muttered.

She looked between the two of them, confused. "Can I help with something?"

Dean turned and grabbed Sam by the arm, yanking him forward. Sam didn't resist when Dean pulled his sleeve away from the bite.

"Oh my God," She clamped a hand over her mouth and looked up to Sam, "I'm so sorry."

"Do something," Dean ordered. She blinked at him.

"I- I don't know what you want me to do," she sputtered, "I'm sorry but you know how this works."

"Do _something,_ " Dean growled and she backed away a step. Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said to her. "I know there's nothing you can do."

She blinked a little, eyes getting a wet. "I really am sorry. I wish I could do something. Anything."

"It's on his arm," Dean pointed out, "It hasn't spread yet."

She frowned at him for a moment, then her eyes widened. "You can't- I mean, I don't know how far it's spread. I could be cutting it off for no reason."

Sam turned to Dean, mouth hanging open. "You want to cut off my arm!"

"It's the only way to save you," Dean half-pleaded, "You'll die otherwise."

Sam clenched his jaw, glancing down to his arm. "Okay."

Dean paused. "Okay?" he repeated, as if he hadn't heard correctly.

"Okay," Sam said again. "Let's give it a shot."

She took them to the back room and had Sam sit up on a metal table. She would have preferred him lying down but the table was meant for animals, not 6'4 sasquatches. Dean had to stand at his back to catch him if he passed out.

She was extracting the needle from Sam's arm. "That should help with the pain," she said, but she didn't sound completely confident. Then, she strapped a shoelace tight just above his elbow before shoving a dog's chew toy in his mouth. Sam raised his eyebrow.

"You're gonna want to bite down on something," she advised. Sam looked over to Dean desperately and Dean grabbed his shoulder tightly. His glanced to Sam's arm where the doc had already made the first incision. Sam hadn't even batted an eye. She looked up at Sam, then met eyes with Dean before switching for the saw.

Sam did scream that time.

* * *

By the time it was done, Sam was lying heavy into Dean, eyes half closed, teeth still clenched into the rubber bone. The doc cleaned the stump where Sam's left arm now ended just below the elbow and bandaged it tightly.

"We'll have to keep it clean," she said quietly, barely louder than Sam's muffled, heaving breaths. "And we have to hope that we caught the infection before it spread."

Dean wanted to argue, tell her that Sam _had_ to be fine because there couldn't be anything else. But Sam was tired and in pain and there was nowhere for him to lie down in the vet's back room.

"Can you get Bobby to come over here?" he asked her, "Tell him to bring one of the stretchers."

She nodded and hurried off. Dean looked at Sam, Sam was watching him through pain-dulled eyes and tear slipped down his cheek. Dean put his fingers through Sam's hair until Bobby showed up.

Sam had lost a lot of weight since the whole end-of-the-world thing had started. He was way too skinny for a guy his height, but then again, everyone was too skinny these days. It was easier than it should have been to carry Sam on the stretcher between them back to their house. But Sam was a whole chunk lighter now.

Their camp was a small half-built housing estate that they had managed to put a wall up around. It was a lucky find, most other places were burned down or infested, but this place was far off in the middle of nowhere, equipped with everything small-town suburban people would have needed.

Sam and Dean shared a small bungalow with Bobby and two other young men, cousins from Iowa, the only ones left in their family. The two of them were playing cards on the floor of unfurnished lounge when Bobby and Dean brought Sam in.

"Holy shit!" the younger one, Tom, gasped, eyes going straight to Sam's bandaged stump. He got to his feet and took a step forward like he wanted to help but his cousin, Zachary, held him back and whispered to give them some space. Dean was grateful.

Bobby had barely said a word the whole time but he spoke up once they had Sam tucked into his bed roll. "You know this ain't over?" he asked, eyeing Dean carefully. "There might still be infection. And if there is, you know what to do."

"He'll be fine," Dean said sharply.

"Dean…"

"You can go now."

Bobby stared at him for a moment longer, then crouched down and pushed Sam's sweat-streaked bangs from his face. He got up and made to leave but he lingered in the door. "Call me if you need anything," he said, his hand ghosted over the gun strapped to his thigh. Then he left.

Dean sat down by Sam and brushed his fingers through Sam's hair again. "You'll be okay," he said.

* * *

The fever came that night.

Tom was standing warily in the corner, moving from foot to foot like he was ready to make a run for it, but Zachary stayed by Dean, ringing out wet cloths to hand to him.

"We should get the doc," he suggested. Dean nodded and Tom dashed away.

Dean looked down at Sam, he was pale white and soaked in sweat, tossing and turning on the bedroll, eyes darting around, not following anything in particular as he muttered incomprehensibly under his breath. Dean pressed a cool cloth to his brow and Sam leaned into it, sighing a little in relief.

"Dean…" he whispered, voice completely raw and lost.

"Yeah, Sammy?" he answered.

"I wish that…" he paused and took in a deep breath, "We'd done it my way."

Dean didn't answer. He wouldn't answer. Because, "Sam, you're going to be fine."

"I'm dying," Sam told him, shuddering hard.

"Dean," Zachary spoke up softly, his voice was deep and grating but he always spoke so gently, "I think he's right."

"No."

"Dean," Zachary repeated, stronger this time, "I don't think you got the infection."

Dean refused to look, refused to listen. "He'll be fine," he said again, "The doc will give him antibiotics and he'll be fine."

Zachary sighed, long and tired. "I know you don't want it to be true," he said, "I know I'd be the same if it were Tom, but we can't let him suffer like this. You know he wouldn't want to go through the Change."

Dean glanced down again. Sam was still shifting, his bandaged stump lifted a little like he meant to push something away with a hand he no longer had.

"He'll be fine," Dean said again.

* * *

The doc arrived quickly and checked him over. She looked under the bandages and cleaned them, then hooked Sam up to an IV. She wouldn't look at Dean and it took her a long time to finally speak.

"It could be a regular infection," she said slowly, "and it could be that this is the Change beginning."

"So we don't know," Dean clarified.

She sighed and quickly looked to Zachary. "The thing is," she said, "I can't find any infection on the wound. And a normal infection wouldn't happen this fast."

Dean glared at her. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," she looked again at Zachary, her mouth was half-open but no words were coming out.

"She's saying that Sam's going to die," Zach cut in, "And that _this_ is the Change happening, you couldn't catch the infection in time."

There was a moment of quiet where they waited for Dean to say something. Instead, he picked up the water bowl and hurled it at the wall, smashing it to pieces, soaking the wallpaper. "Fuck!"

"Dean, I'm sorry," Zachary said, he didn't dare try to touch him. "Maybe it's best to put him out of his misery."

Dean glanced over to Sam again. His eyes were open and he was panting way too fast.

"It's okay, Dean," he wheezed, "It'll be okay. J-just do it."

"No," Dean said.

* * *

The sun was coming up, lighting the room, and the doc finally blew out the candles. She sat on Sam's other side, Zach was next to Dean, Tom had finally fallen asleep in the doorway. Bobby had returned late in the night when he'd heard Sam screaming, said the whole camp heard it. He'd brought his gun and sat by Sam's feet with it on his lap.

Sam's breaths were coming in and out like they were being dragged through a grater. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was white and lined with soft blue veins. He rolled his head slowly to the side and looked at Dean, taking his hand weakly. Dean took his icy fingers between his and held tight. Sam smiled at him.

They heard the exact moment Sam had stopped breathing. It was quiet, like the air had been sucked out of the room. The silence seemed to jolt Tom awake and he glanced over. His eyes filled with tears once he noticed what was happening. Poor kid. He'd only been twelve when the virus first broke out.

Dean didn't let go of Sam's hand.

"I can do it," Bobby offered, "Before he comes back again."

"No," Dean said. Everyone looked at each other warily.

"Dean, we have to stop him from coming back," the doc said gently.

Dean held out his hand. "Give it to me," he ordered, "I'll do it."

Bobby pressed it into his free hand. No one moved, but they all waited.

Dean felt Sam's fingers twitch first, clumsy like a new-born in his hand. Then his blue, cracked lips parted, letting out a raspy moan that didn't sound like Sam at all. Because this wasn't Sam. This was something living-dead that looked like him. And then his eyes opened, colourless and glossed over with a grey film, sightless, but they roamed the room and found Dean. He didn't look away.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean said. He flicked the safety off the gun, never letting go of Sam's hand. The rasping noise was getting louder, more eager, as Sam tried to push himself up a little, reaching his half-arm over to Dean, brushing at the side of his head like he wanted to grab it.

Dean placed the barrel of the gun to Sam temple.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Sam was inching closer, mouth opening and closing, teeth biting together, already hungry.

Dean pulled the trigger.

Sam's body was a twisted heap, half on his side, amputated arm stretch forward, the other still in Dean's grip. His eyes were still open - white and dead and not Sam. Dean placed the gun on the floor and closed them.

"We'll salt and burn him," Dean said, then, "You can go now."

No one argued, just climbed to their feet and made their way out in silence. Everyone but Bobby. Dean looked up and saw that he was crying. He looked down to Sam and brushed a calloused hand through his limp hair. "You tried, Dean," he said.

When Dean spoke, his voice sounded foreign to him. "We always came back," he said.

But the angels and demons were gone now, along with everything else. There were no short-cuts left, there were no more loopholes. This was the end.

* * *

A/N Oh my god sorry. This was really depressing, but I had the urge to write something with a Zombie Apocalypse.

Anyway, I hope it was suitably sad, hopefully it was still good. Don't worry, I won't be writing any more Zombie fics any time soon, especially since Sam is dead.

Please review :)


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